


they'll name a city after us

by paxlux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Winsisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1569185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a blue day, smeared wide just for them, the sky overhead, the shimmer on the road and the wind at their backs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they'll name a city after us

**Author's Note:**

> An old story, reposted for a very nice anon.

It's a blue day. The sky, julienne strips through the blinds, is blue, so perfect and clear it must be cold. 

Sam can see it from where she's sprawled carelessly in bed. Her hair sticks to her cheek, static electricity from the pillow. Fingers brush back the wayward strands and she shifts to see Dean, bending over her, half-dressed, t-shirt and panties. 

“C'mon, Sammy, let's hit the road.”

The room is blue and the comforters are blue, or at least a faded gray. The air is slow and sweet and Sam smiles at the way Dean slips into her jeans, hopping as she pulls them over her hips. 

Dean sits on the floor to tie her boots and Sam sits on the edge of her bed to put on her shoes and she laughs when she feels Dean's hands tying her laces too, distrusting because of pranks, trusting because it's Dean. 

Packing only takes a few minutes, drill yard precision, though Dean has to run back for her lip gloss left on the lip of the sink and Sam has to search around with a confident hand under a bed for her paperback. She's in the juicy middle of it and usually she wouldn't cry over an abandoned book, but this one eats miles on the road like other books haven't in a long time.

They screech out of the parking lot and Dean rolls down her window, so Sam does the same, airflow, and sticks her hand out as they hit the highway, going even faster.

It's a blue day, smeared wide just for them, the sky overhead, the shimmer on the road and the wind at their backs.

**

The stars are rising over the horizon, the world rotating like a dropped toy. Leaning against the tree, Dean tilts her head. She always looks for Orion, the starting point for all her constellations. 

Orion, The Hunter, just like us, kiddo, just like us, Dad used to say.

It's times like these, swallowed by the dark and the stars, it's times like these when Dean misses her father so much it twists her gut. 

Sam moves, shoulder sliding against her, rasp of flannel, that ugly shirt Dean can't seem to get rid of because Sam still finds it, no matter how Dean tries to lose it in the laundry. There's a laundromat somewhere out there that will eventually be the lucky recipient of the shirt. 

Arm up, gun aiming at the stars, Sam outlines Orion, giving him his belt last. The grin she gives Dean is bigger than the constellation and just as spectacular, though so much closer and so much warmer. 

Dean would laugh, but they're waiting on the skinwalker, so instead, she grabs Sam's chin and wiggles her tongue obscenely at her sister. A gasp of breath, Sam hiding her own laughter, bangs falling over her eyes as she tugs out of Dean's hand.

It's times like these, next to Sam and them leeching oxygen and heat from each other, it's times like these when Sam laughs and it's a conduit to Dean's heart, sparking and shining.

**

Blood looks black in terrible light. It doesn't look much better under the greasy fluorescent in the bathroom, everything too yellow and orange and in a movie, this would be the place for the first disturbing crime scene.

But it's real and it's Sam's life, fingers slippery on the needle, hands steady while her nerves shake and it's Dean's life because her blood is on her outsides instead of her insides. 

Dean moans, cursing under her breath, pushing her hair off her face with a red hand and her palm leaves streaks on her cheek, her temple, into the sweaty dark blonde strands. 

Long gash marring pale skin, inside of her thigh where it's soft and Sam calms Dean with her fingertips, flitting touches as she stitches. 

When she's done, Sam feels the impulsive push of adrenaline, kisses where the wound ends, high, and her mouth is red, blood as lipstick, and Dean puts a hand in her hair, tugging her up.

Dean's eyes are wide and metallic like bottle caps before they close and the kiss is their life, blood between them, on their lips, their teeth, their tongues.

Sam licks away any pain and the bandage around Dean's thigh is whiter than the sheets.

**

The bar is green or maybe it's just the pool tables and neon. Or it's the shots Dean's just ordered. Or it's Dean's eyes when she looks in the bathroom mirror, the alcohol like a slow burn lighting her up and Sam teases her for staring at herself. 

But Sam doesn't tease when Dean pulls her into a stall, fingers in those long wavy tresses, flyaway silk that kills Dean, dangerous in bed and dangerous on a hunt. She gets Sam into the corner, kissing her breathless, smearing their lipstick, sticky on their mouths like liquor. 

Hand under Sam's shirt and Sam arches, so slim, easy lithe curves and Dean nips at her throat for being a good girl, pushing her tits against Dean's.

They weave out of the bathroom, loose linked fingers, and someone whistles at them. Sam's eyes narrow, sizing up the culprit and Dean laughs, slips a possessive arm around Sam and whispers, “Let's make some money.”

A hustle, a good old-fashioned hustle in the hovering smoke and heavy languid air. Dean swings her hips and Sam purses her lips and they giggle together, wrists crossing as they mess about with the pool cues, the men watching them. 

Sisterly taunting and Dean declares she can beat anyone, even though she's only played a few times, you know, at a fraternity, drunken strip pool. They sip their beers, mouths lingering on the bottles and Dean makes it all look like luck, especially when she wrangles Sam into helping her, bodies smushed together, limbs tangled to attempt to difficult shots.

The men don't grumble when Dean takes all their money, merely stand with sloppy beers and dazed greedy expressions. Sam's eyes flash, witch-like, and Dean snaps her fingers to break the mood.

Celebration is shots in a forgotten booth and Sam rubbing maddening circles at the heat between Dean's legs under the table.

Later, they lick tequila off each other's fingers in the dark in the Impala. They drive away, whooping, somewhat sober, somewhat buzzed, the stack of money crumpled in the front pocket of Dean's jeans and Dean's hand in the back pocket of Sam's jeans.

**

Dusk, the world gone gray and purple, winding down with clicks like the Impala's engine. The grass is tall and Dean sinks into it, disappearing and Sam laughs, calling, “De, De, De.” 

A hand grabs her ankle and yanks her down and they fight like Dad taught them, ‘You girls are strong and will need to take care of yourselves,’ he said. ‘Take care of each other.’

Sam wrestles Dean into a comfortable position where she can sprawl, arms out, head in Dean's lap, grass stains on her legs. She picks out clouds, declaring shapes and Dean calls bullshit every time. 

It's good, the air on their skin, until Dean starts twitching, twisting underneath Sam and she smacks at Dean. But Dean catches her wrist, tongue on the underside along Sam's veins and Sam shivers, can't help it when Dean does that. 

“Sit up, princess, I got somethin' for ya.”

Dean's eyes are sparkling, framed by the razor-edged angle of her haircut, her mouth in a smirk. She jams something on Sam's head: a daisy-chain crown made of dandelions. 

Sam tackles her and kisses her deep, murmuring about royalty and all its perks, lacing their fingers together as she pins Dean and nudges her legs apart. 

It looks like there's blood under Dean's fingernails, but it's the remnants of that red nail polish she grabbed at the last gas station, letting Sam drive while she painted and chewed on a Snickers bar.

The sun sets and they kiss, promises for later, hauling each other to their feet. Dean unlocks the trunk, tosses Sam her shovel and some rock salt cartridges, getting her own gear and the flashlight. They run across the dirt road, Dean pulling her hair into a ponytail as they enter the cemetery across the way. 

They find the grave and sing together, Dean switching to the filthy lyrics, Sam screeching through the high notes until it's just them in the night, digging and Dean hums Zeppelin with a smudge of dirt on her cheek, Sam's dandelions tickling her forehead.

**

It's a white day. Stretched thin clouds and it's so hot, both of them breathing sweaty in the staleness of the car. Windows down, music up, Sam piles her hair on top of her head and Dean reaches over, pokes her in the ribs. A shriek and the car swerves, Sam holding Dean's arm hostage. 

A flurry of trees, so they stop to pee and stretch their legs. Dean pulls the car far enough off the road that they're practically hidden. 

No one in sight, no one for miles, just a rickety weather-beaten fence, crooked as teeth in the ground. Rummaging, Sam finds some cans, a few plastic bottles and they stand them on the fence, Dean cooing to her favorite gun and Sam deciding, finger on her chin, before picking a shotgun. 

The shots echo up to the clouds and with a little exploring just past the fence, they discover a piece of corrugated metal, ripped off from somewhere, Sam imagines a barn fire, Dean imagines a tornado. 

They make targets and bet and cheat in the heat, running out of ammo and not wanting to walk back to the car. Sam does handstands and cartwheels, her shirt falling into her face and Dean claps with a leering grin on her face.

Tugging on Dean's beltloops, Sam pulls her close, talking against her mouth, “Love you, Dean, make me so fucking crazy,” as Dean drags the gun along Sam's body, up her belly, up between her breasts, up her throat as Sam throws her head back. 

Dean whispers, “Sammy Sammy Sammy,” their eyes closing and it's a white day with a hint of forever because they've got each other, they're together under the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Us" by Regina Spektor.


End file.
